Black Dog

As soon as I awake, my head buzzes as if full of flies.

They’ve been buzzing since I woke up and I can’t concentrate on a fucking thing, which is no surprise. Not these days. I need to get out of bed now, my bladder is telling me so. Either that or pish myself, and I’m not that far gone. No far off it maybe.

I had an appointment with the doctor yesterday. The usual sort of thing. Bastard couldn’t wait to get me out. It was nothing if not predictable.

“So how are you feeling now, Mr, ah, Ross?”

Ok. First point. You may not give two fucks, Doctor, but I have been building up to this appointment for at least a week. I have lost hour upon hour of sleep thinking about how you are going to take away my prescription or send me back to work. At least do me the common courtesy of getting my fucking name right. Is it really too much to ask?

“No so good Doctor. Those pills you gave me don’t seem to be helping.”

I’m feeling terrible doctor, I am borderline suicidal and fear my wife is going to leave me. I am dying inside and if you were even remotely perceptive you would know that. I am silently thanking God that I have enough wits about me not to punch you, because you will never know how much I want to.

“You need to give them time, Mr Ross. It’s typical with these medicines that you won’t notice the effects straight away. You have only been taking them….let me see…..about two weeks? Ok. I will extend your sick line for another, say, four weeks, make an appointment for then.”

That is the jackpot though, the sick line. I couldn’t face the office at the moment. I would rather die, frankly.

That was it. I didn’t bother giving him my symptoms, Christ knows I’ve explained them often enough already. They sound mental anyway, I get embarrassed even telling you: Doctor, I feel like I’m going to puke all the time but never do or Doctor, I walk down the street and feel like I’m on a conveyor belt. People talk to me and it sounds like I’m underwater. I try to read the paper and the words swim about and make me feel sick. I can’t watch the news because if anything bad has happened in the world it makes me cry.

There’s more. I can’t look at my wife anymore because I feel weak and pathetic. My libido is zero, and I don’t remember the last time I had a hard on. If it wasn’t so useful for pissing I’d cut it off. My kids look at me like I’m some sort of freak. Maybe I am. They tiptoe around me, and don’t invite their friends round any more, except sometimes at the weekends when they know I will be drunk. The drink helps. I can go from being the worst company in the world to something approaching acceptable in three large vodkas and a bottle of Becks.

I was going to take up the carpet the other day. The hall carpet, it’s a bit scruffy and I thought it would be a nice surprise for the wife when she got in. I was going to go to the carpet shop and organise a new one. I didn’t manage. I got as far as taking the Stanley knife out of the tool box. Next minute I’m staring at it and thinking some fucking horrible thoughts (slit those wrists, DO IT). Gave me a fucking fright, I can tell you.

The flat is too small for me to get away from the knife altogether, so I had to go and put it in the bin outside. Just in case. I then spent the day (knowing it was there) on the couch with the telly on staring into space. Tried to watch a film, could I concentrate? Could I fuck. Watched those awful reality shows all day long, I had no idea there were so many. In the old days it was just Springer and Trisha. There are hundreds of them now, all talking the same shite to the same dysfunctional people. The big black ghetto woman from Detroit who is shouting at Geraldo could be the soul sister of the fat white Glaswegian shouting at Jeremy Kyle.

The same day I had to call my boss, Mr Phillips, and tell him I was going back to the doctors but didn’t expect to be in. He’s the type of cunt that thinks “depression is the new backache.” To be fair, once upon a time I did myself. How I long for those simple times. I was quite rude to him. In my defence, any cunt in his mid forties who expects to be addressed as ‘Mr Phillips’ by his staff deserves it.

It sneaks up on you bit by bit though, it’s a fly fucker.